


Who Not to Be

by Rohen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M, Multi, Pining, Slow Burn, buckle up babes, self discovery in the form of teenage wizards, will tag more when more things apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rohen/pseuds/Rohen
Summary: A second generation emerges after the war, and Scorpius Malfoy and Albus Potter have one thing in common: they're determined not to be what anyone expects of them. They're lost, they're belligerent, and they're clumsy at love. Whatever it is they're trying to become, they'll do it together.





	1. Prologue - Welcome

**Author's Note:**

> most chapters will gather in length, im bad at beginnings, im too focused on the end. also, this is NOT meant to 'correct' the cursed child. its completely separate. im basically in denial about the cursed child.

 

 _“But what if Shakespeare― and Hamlet― were asking the wrong question? What if the real question is not whether_ to _be, but_ how _to be?”_

                                                                                                                                               - Gayle Forman

It is fifth year for Scorpius Malfoy at the Hogwarts castle.

 

To be clear, it is his _first_ year in attendance at Hogwarts, but he had been placed within the fifth year after scholarly assessment and a bit of sway on his father's part.  

His father had insisted with such fervor that Scorpius be home-schooled, at least until sixteen, that not even Astoria Malfoy could dispute it, though she seldom let the matter rest. Hogwarts was somewhere his mum believed everyone ought to go if they could-- that the history and magic within the grounds were second to nowhere.

 

His father was not an ignoramus, he knew this was true, but it was not enough.

 

Paranoia had seeped stealthily into the veins of Draco Malfoy, followed interchangeably with shame, and the desire to protect his son from an experience he could not predict or intercept in was too much to bear. He wanted Scorpius safe, and there was only one way to insure that. And so Scorpius was, and had been, and probably would have _continued,_ even past sixteen (as he is now) with homeschooling, if not for certain circumstances. Astoria Malfoy would get her wish in the end, then.

 

Though a little later than she would have liked.

 

***

Scorpius’s dreams are heavy in his mind when he awakens. He lingers with them behind the curtains of his bed, curled half-way between the duvet. The room must be empty, for the sun through the window of the Slytherin tower is high and the smell of earth is carried through the wind into the room through the opened panes.

 Scorpius closes his eyes and sees his father and McGonagall sitting in the head office, expressions polite, even warm, until a light voice Scorpius doesn't recognize but can probably guess says, _"my, my, he has his mother's eyes, Draco."_

 The mood had shifted then, but Scorpius could not place how. He was sorted into his house privately within the office in a more somber atmosphere than before, sans welcoming ceremony. Although, the audience of headmasters and mistresses watching from their wall could hardly have been any less intimidating than a room full of gawking teenagers.

Slytherin, of course, was the house assignment.

 

He felt a tinge of disappointment. His father's face hardened, though he tried to remain impassive. Scorpius saw the fight of pride and determination in his father's eyes.

 _Redeem us_ , they had said. Could he have been afraid, too?  

Scorpius stirs and peeks outside of his curtain, only climbing out when he's sure he's alone. He's quick to change into his robes, ignoring a pang of sudden hunger. Breakfast is sure to be over, or about to be.

 

He wouldn't have gone anyway.

 

He plans on keeping a low-profile for as long as is possible.

 

It's Sunday, having arrived late last night instead of Saturday morning, as was planned, and he has less time to learn about Hogwarts before class resumes tomorrow. He brushes his hair quickly, none-too-concerned about his appearance, and shrugs off out of the room quietly. He's not sure who is dorm-mates are yet, but he'll find out soon enough. He can only hope that as fellow Slytherins they will ignore the history his surname has procured, and darkly, wonders if they will like him better or worse for it. The war had, in its course, solidified alliances and served to cement a wall of division between the Wizarding World, and in doing so, the students of Hogwarts.

 

Slytherins who had felt a quiver of remorse, fear, or dared express objection towards the darkness that had inched its way inside of its borders were considered traitors, usurpers of a force that had mounted to unite and protect them, or so was _said._ There was no room for rebellion within the Slytherin house, especially with the threat of Voldemort's long fingered reach over their families. Scorpius doubts any other house could have felt the fear that his own had-- that his _father_ had-- during the war.

 

The looming threat of Voldemort's fury turned inwards, towards what he could consider betrayal, was nothing to be compared to.

He shivers now, thinking about it. 

He can't imagine his father or his mum, held captive by the pronged threats of the Darkest Lord ever known. How quickly would he have crumbled? What would it take for him to do what his father had done? 

It was _after_ the war that all previous constructions were demolished by the brute force that accompanies the end of any reign of evil. It was as if reality had burst with the weight of the deed it had born, unable to stand it any longer. Slytherins and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and Gryffindors were able to see each other stripped bare, past the veil that had been forced in front of them. Hogwarts vowed to unite their students, and before the start of the next year, closed the dungeons and built a tower above ground for the Slytherins.

 The dungeons, on top of being bleak and enforcing a sense of lurking darkness, evoked memories for some that made the war seem like a never-ending nightmare. The Slytherin tower is now to the east of the Hospital wing, renovated to be livable, but most of the furniture recycled from the dungeon, save for skulls and other exceedingly dark ornate objects. From the very top of the rooms, where the girls live, you can just glimpse the top of the Gryffindor tower.   

Scorpius knew that one of his father's friends, Goyle, was pulled from school shortly before the reconstruction took place. His nightmares were too great, his war was still waging, his father had said in subdued tones.

His father doesn't talk about Goyle often, even now, though he knows they owl occasionally. Goyle’s owl is a smart looking thing, though a bit fat for a bird, and refuses to leave unless Scorpius sends him off with a proper treat.

Scorpius winds his way down the spiral staircase from the boy's rooms, and takes quick, shy glances around the common room before speeding out. There's a girl with a book to her nose in the room, but she doesn't seem to notice him. Or care.

He pauses at the door, only for a moment, and swings out before he can lose courage to venture out. The unknown lurks before him, sultry and tempestuous as it is terrifying.

 The hall is empty, save for the husks of armor and tapestries that have always adorned the castle. Some of the knights, he notices, have scuffs of dents in their shining armor.

Not every tapestry is pristine, some have what curiously looks like slashes, or burn marks.

 He sets off as a brisk walk, towards where he remembers McGonagall pointing in the direction of what she says is, “one of the greatest wizarding libraries for students.”

 

***

 

 

Madam Pince is probably the scariest witch Scorpius has ever put eyes upon. She is wrinkled and stoops slightly in her age, but her face is sharp, with keen hawk-like eyes. Her graying hair is in a tight bun beneath a smart looking hat, and she very much resembles a crow as she glides between the bookcases, eyes glowing intently.

 

Scorpius startles a bit when she hisses at students whispering in a bundle at table not  far from him, glancing up from his book.

The murmurs subside momentarily, but creep back within moments.

 

He tries to concentrate on his book, a review on the properties of potions and their history in medicinal magic. The words blur. He feels like a hole is being born into his back. Paranoia creeps up next, though he fights it. He hasn't introduced himself to a single soul yet, it's impossible that anyone would know who he is.

Yet, when the whispers continue to elevate to the point of sharp reprimand from Madam Pince, Scorpius finds his nerves wavering.

He chances up from his book and is met with furtive glances from across the room. A gaggle of girls are crowded together, apparently hesitant after a second warning from the ever-glowering librarian. They cover their mouths when they lean into whisper into a neighboring ear. Scorpius feels his face flush, and looks down at his book. The words are nonsensical, it might as well have been a book written by a giant. A giant writing a book, that's a laugh, he thinks. He screws up his face in an effort to distract himself from the growing discomfort he feels.

"Don't worry about them."

Scorpius looks up slowly from his book. A girl with Gryffindor robes is standing in front of his desk. Her hair is like fire behind her, wild and lively. She has a round, pleasant face, and brown eyes. Scorpius thinks she's rather pretty, though he doesn't know what exactly to say in response. His quizzical look must convey enough.

"They're just curious, is all. Hogwarts doesn't ever get transfer student's. Especially not past first year." She squints her eyes, as if in thought, "Actually, you may be the first."

 "Um," Scorpius says. He glances around for Pince awkwardly. Rose sits down at his table, opposite of him. He blinks at her.

"I'm Rose Weasley," She states matter-of-factly, "I'm a fifth year student as well, so that's how I know you're new. I know all fifth year students. I'm trying to learn all the first years, but there's quite a lot, and it's only the third week of school."

Scorpius feels his face burn. He knows the Weasleys, er, _of_ them, and he knows she doesn't know who he is, or she'd have never sat across from him. He feels immediate shame, like he's lying by not letting her know right away.

 _‘Hello Rose Weasley, I’m Draco Malfoy’s son, you know, the one who tried to kill your parents,’_ he thinks bitterly.  She should know who she's sitting across from, but he doesn't know how to say it, so he stares at her, skin prickling.

"Pleased to meet you," he says quietly, an instinctive glance towards Madam Pince.

Rose Weasley stares at him for a moment before nodding her head, "That's a good book. I've read it before. Chapter six is where it really gets interesting-- it talks about the discovery of reversal poisons. Anyway, I'll be going, I’ve got to meet someone."

 

She's up and moving before Scorpius can say another word, which he's thankful for, and he pretends to read for a few minutes before accepting defeat. He closes his book and runs a hand through his hair, stomach twisted, before packing up to leave. The girls who had resumed studying stop to watch him, and he can feel their gaze like pins poking his skin.

Rose Weasley will discover who he is, if not by dinner time, without a doubt on Monday when classes resume. And he can't help but wonder how much regret she'll feel for showing him kindness, or whatever it was, when she knows the truth. The thought weighs heavily on him as he leaves the library. 

It's not like him to feel so displaced, so shameful, or embarrassed. This, he thinks bitterly, is what his father had tried to shield him from. The truth.

The truth is, he's a Malfoy.

His family has made its own history and has, at the turn of the century, only just come to realize the ere of their ways. The _truth_ is, he's ashamed of his name, and of what his father and grandfather have done, even if he can't say he wouldn't do the same. In a way, he knows he would have done for his parent's what his father did for his own, no matter how much he tells himself he's not his father. He would do dark things to protect them, just the same, and this makes him feel wretchedly like he's no better than the people who were on the wrong side of the war. He would have been just like them, a puppet for a master, if the price was right.

 

He walks in a haze, not sure of where he is, or how to get back to the Slytherin dorms. The thud of a headache blooms behind his eyes. He stops walking to press his palms to them, breathing slowly.

He didn't want to come to Hogwarts, he doesn't want to be here now.

This was never his choice. He didn't get to choose how or why, or when, or anything that has been his life. He loves his parents, but he's angry. Resentment stirs him in quiet moments, and he thinks bitterly that they are the problem they're trying to protect him from. They can't atone for their sins, so they hide their shame. And Scorpius stayed hidden for sixteen years, a diligent lonely student with exceptional tutors. The only teenager, the only _child_ , at Malfoy Manor.

 Sure, he got to see his cousin, _sometimes._ But where were his friends? He didn't have any, how could he? He was stowed away. His father told him everything about his past so Scorpius would know the truth from the source, instead of from gossip. And at times, Draco would get this sad, horribly raw expression on his face, especially at the end of Astoria's life, and look searchingly into Scorpius' face as if he could hold the answer to the misery he felt.  

He needs to be the perfect son, the atonement, the righter of injustice, the proof in the pudding that a Malfoy can and will always be powerful, respected, and now, incorruptible by evil.  

Scorpius' innards twist again, his throat heavy, and he finds himself outside. He doesn't remember leaving the confines of the castle.

It's beautiful out. The grounds are bathed with sun, a chorus of song-bird chirping through the crisp air. Dog violet and honeysuckle be-speckle the ground and he watches as a bird swoops to collect an insect from the grass. He makes his way towards the lake, hand sheltering his eyes as searches the water for a ripple of giant squid.

Students are dotted around its edge, chatting or laying back, lazing in the weather. Boys dart by on brooms, laughing after each other. He feels a swell of excitement.

The previous regret of his force departure ebbs further away until he can no longer feel it. It’s as if he’s seeing Hogwarts for the first time, and suddenly his mother’s wishes make sense.

He's amazed and overwhelmed and giddy. He thumbs his wand in his pocket absentmindedly, fingers damp with sweat. He feels like if he knew how, he could conjure a patronus. His empty stomach, his headache, his fear and anger leave him quietly in the gaze of the sun, and his shoulders dip in relaxation. Even if he’s not accepted, even if he has to fight tooth and nail to prove himself different from his family, he feels invincible now. He stands at the brink of his future and feels a tremor pass through him.

 

His mum was right, she was always right.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Albus Potter, delinquent child.

 

 _“Dangerous thing, a name. Someone might catch hold of you by it, mightn't they?”_   - Richard Adams 

 

 

Astoria Malfoy was not lithe and sharp, as is Narcissa, as is her son and Astoria’s husband, Draco-- but shorter, softer, with an oval face and olive complexion.

Her hair is long and dark, her eyes a deep blue. She’s not timid in nature, or in any way considered quiet, but blunt and with a firm personality, seldom wavered. Before her downfall, she had made many excursions with Scorpius to the forests licking the walls of the manor, teaching him the best ways to find ingredients for potions. Occasionally they'd drift to town together for tea or casual shopping. She had no fear for the things one might have thought she should have, or perhaps her fear was overcome easily with confidence of experience. 

She was a very adept witch, with a knack for creation—whether it was potions or small, useful spells. Perhaps it was what attracted Draco to her in the first place, though he never says. It could have just as easily been her compassion, or beauty. 

 

And Draco does adore her, at least, for as much as a man like Draco Malfoy can. Scorpius knows his parent’s loved each other, whatever else he may have doubts about.

 

The downfall of Astoria Malfoy is likely the downfall of his father. Even the best witches and wizards cannot cure everything. The force and speed with which Astoria suffered and ultimately died was too sudden. There’s no time to adjust to the idea that she will not recover, there is no spell Draco or the Healers can cast, or Scorpius in his privacy, that can slow her unraveling. If there is mercy in her death, it is that she suffers briefly, and keeps her wits about her before they can degrade away like the way her strength does.

 

Of course, this doesn’t help Scorpius. He thinks he stops breathing with her the day he walks into her room, tea-tray elevating by wand point in front of him. He insists on bringing her tea and jam every morning, and this morning is no different. Except the room is colder than normal, curtains drawn, and the dark seeps up from the floorboard and Scorpius knows before he sees her that she’s gone. She dies in her sleep, hair fanned against the pillow like she’s fallen into the bed. The tea tray clatters to the ground, along with his wand, along with himself, and everything after is a blur.

Draco doesn’t recover enough to return to work, or refuses either way. No one presses him, it's too soon to expect him well. He sits in his study, taping his wand against empty whiskey glasses, and doesn’t look at Scorpius for longer than a heartbeat. His eyes are sunken, dark circles around them.  Scorpius doesn’t try to talk to him, either. He's mad, viciously mad, but he doesn't know why. He wants to blame his father, but there's no reason to do so, and so a silence blankets the manor. 

They sit in tense nothingness at meals and in the den. This night is no different. It's a week after Astoria’s death. Scorpius reads a book in the den, though he's more staring blankly at the pages. 

Draco stands to refill his empty glass with a wave of his wand, his voice husked from disuse.

“You’ll be going to Hogwarts, afterall.”

 

Scorpius looks up from his book. He stares at his father, pale fingers gripping the glass as a tremor shakes his entire arm. Heat coils in his throat but he swallows it.

Draco takes a swig before slinking back into his chair, eyeing Scorpius.

“I’ll have the house-elves get your supplies.” He says after a moment, looking away. The fire swishes like the wings of a phoenix in the hearth. “And new robes. Your hair is getting long, too.”

Scorpius looks back down at his book, “Mum liked it longer.”

The room is enveloped in silence once more. Draco doesn’t mention it again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scorpius lays blinking up at the ceiling of the boy’s dormitory as the sun climbs into the sky. He can hear footsteps pounding from above, Slytherin girls getting ready for classes. It’s Wednesday, his third day at Hogwarts. Monday was relatively calm, albeit awkward and lonesome. Tuesday was worse.

People had learned who he was, of course, which was unavoidable. Scorpius never tried to kid himself that he would sail by, completely undetected. They reacted predictably, to say the least, with mingles of disgust and intrigue. 

 

Most student’s only whisper amongst themselves, fast and furious as one does when confronted with especially juicy gossip. Some shout at him, which he has also expected, though cant help feeling caught off guard when “ _Death Eater_!” is thrown at him. He looks for the girl with fiery red hair and doesn't see her, except once in the hallway, and she seemed to be pointedly ignoring him. He wonders if she is disgusted by him, too. Can he blame her? 

 

 _The legacy of Malfoy lives on_ , he thinks to himself, raising a hand to the ceiling. His fingers shake slightly and he balls them into a fist.  

 

Only when he thinks his room is empty does he emerge to get ready for the day.

 

He has three dorm-mates, two of which he has never heard of before. Howard Sternwill and Gregory Gamboss. The third is a name familiar to him, though he has never met a Parkinson before. He’s a tall bloke with dark eyes and darker hair, Percy Parkinson. Scorpius knows his father was friends with a Parkinson during his years at Hogwarts, but that’s all. Percy must know more, for his welcoming ceremony for Scorpius was dumping his trunk open and scattering his belongings around the room. And some very choice words, none too clever. Expected, really, if Scorpius was truthful. And tame in comparison to what could have happen, or what still can.

 

No hexes fly at him though, which he is thankful for. The whispering and obscenities, are for now, enough for the students.  He wonders when they’ll find it more appealing to start throwing curses. 

                                                                    

***

 

“I think you’re making a mistake.” Rose says, taking a sip of tea. She has her curls tied back in a messy bun. It's complimented by the scarlet of her robes. The boy next to her makes a grunt of agreement. Albus forks his eggs with feigned disinterest. 

 

“Why don’t you go back to the Gryffindor table and whisper with your girlies about it then?” Albus says nonchalantly, chewing slowly. The boy, again, grunts.

 

Rose looks at him. He has pale ginger hair and wide, brown eyes, that don’t look at either of them. 

 

"Something in your throat, Lysander?" She quips. 

 

"Not at all," Lysander says easily. He and Albus exchange a look, both Slytherin's seem to be weighing the situation. 

 

"I think Rose's right, though," Lysander stretches, patting his stomach. Albus thinks he's a traitor and scowls.  "The bloke is probably a bit nutty, what do you want to talk to him for?" 

 

 "'Dunno." Albus shrugs, "Feel like I should. Make amends, all that." 

 

 Rose scoffs, slamming her mug down. " _Amends_? Albus, since when are you so altruistic? Don't be ridiculous, you only want to talk to him because you know your father would--" 

 

“And how exactly do you _plan_ on talking to him?” Lysander interrupts smoothly, resting his chin on his palm.

 

“Common room? Halls? He’s not a ghost, for Merlin’s sake.”

 

“And how would you do  _that_? Greg says Malfoy sits in his poster all the time, especially after Percy dumped his trunk out.” Rose says stiffly. “I can’t imagine he’s very pleased about it all, he could be _dangerous_ —“

"That's enough, Rose," Albus snaps, "I'm not an ickle first year, barely able to hold my wand. If he's acts squirrely, I'll hex him. And anyway, why are you chumming it up with Greg? He’s a gossip, just like the girls.”

 

"Oh yeah, brilliant idea, Al. That'll really make amends." Rose sighs, then gathers her things. "Give him the ol' bat-boogey-hex. Great friends after that, I should think!" 

 

She exhales slowly and stands. "I'm going to get to Charms early. I have to ask Flitwick a question about our homework, and you’re being tiresome." 

"Oi," Lysander scrabbles after her, "Wait, wait! You said you'd help me with the notes for Transfiguration!  _Wait!_ " 

 

He disappears after Rose in a rush, robes billowing behind him. 

 Albus glares after them and then stares down at his plate, no longer hungry. His OWLS are this year, and he's at a loss. Maybe what Rose says holds truth, maybe he should be likes Lysander—rushing off to get better notes, stuffing his nose in a book, and studying until his brain needs to be spelled back into his head.

 There’s a problem, though. There always is. 

He has no particular direction he feels compelled to head, none at all. He can easily fall backwards into the foundation his father has laid for him, and yet, the idea inspires revulsion. Albus doesn't know what the future holds for him, or whether he will be anything other than Harry Potter's delinquent son, the Slytherin.

The son who's bad at quidditch. The one who can’t cast a Patronus, like his brother could by now. The son that doesn’t want to be brave (like James), or intellectual (like Lily), or strong (like his mum, in so many different ways).

Or the powerful-- the C _hosen One_ \-- like  _Harry Potter._

 The only thing Albus knows is that he wants to talk to Scorpius Malfoy, it compels him like a sharp tug in his gut. He doesn't have a reason, past Scorpius being the only other person in Hogwarts,  _maybe_  the entire wizarding world, who could ever understand living in the legacy made in war. 

The ever lurking shadow of a parent.

 And, of course, his father would not be pleased if he were to somehow secure a friendship with the Malfoy boy. No one would, he thinks, and for some reason, this makes Scorpius all the more alluring. 

 He packs his things quickly before breakfast ends, smirking at the delighted shrieks of Peeves as he startles a group of first years enough to send bits of toast flying. He's got a block in Muggle Studies first thing, and there’s still three inches to write for his essay. 

 

***

 

Scorpius enters the Muggle Studies classroom early, face flushed. He wants to make sure he's in the right place, although there's no professor to be found. A boy is hunched over a parchment, quill moving so quickly the feather blurs. He doesn't seem to notice the intrusion.

Scorpius looks around the room, eyes wide. There are painting all over the walls, immobile, with gloss finish and ornate frames. He sees  _Shakespeare, Poe, Bach_ scrawled on nameplates. There are objects sitting in shelves all around the room, strange things he's never seen. They have plates as well, designating what each item is called.  _Type-writer, telephone, computer,_  and a box called  _stereo._  

Scorpius settles down at the back of the class, a few spots away from the boy with his nose to the parchment. His mouth is open in awe. 

This  _must_  be the Muggle Studies class. What else could it be? He's never seen anything like this, and the Malfoy's were not sparing with their items of luxury. These are things Scorpius could never dream of. He lets his eyes flash around the room, excited and nervous, like he's suddenly discovered something very secret and taboo. 

 The scratching of the quill ceasing catches his attention, and he and the boy previously writing catch each other’s eyes.

 Scorpius feels the air leave his lungs. 

_It's Albus Potter._

 He doesn't have to guess. Scorpius _knows_ his face from the paper, from when they do narrative pieces of  _"Where is the Chosen One Now?"_ that serve to bring to light the trivial, everyday life of Harry Potter and his ministry workings. They also quibble on about his wife and family. It's very tabloid, but Scorpius knows his father reads it every time, and so he does too. 

Oldest son, James Potter, is headlines for a week after joining the Auror force-- soon after leaving Hogwarts. Lily Potter starts her next Gryffindor year as keeper of the quidditch team and vice president of the newly formed Trivial Pursuit club, which Rose Weasley also takes part in. Albus Potter, the middle child, receives raving speculation due to his delinquent behavior including but not limited to: charming muggle items, pranking students with banned items (thanks to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, no doubt) and what some say worst of all, being sorted into _Slytherin h_ ouse and continually receiving disciplinary action due to his misbehaviors. He has his own section at least once a year. Scorpius has seen him grinning up from the newspaper each time, a secret part of him jealous of Albus's wildness.

It's glaringly apparent the papers don't do Albus justice. Scorpius never realized how sharp Albus's eyes are, or how green. He's got stubble forming on his chin and he's clearly taller than Scorpius, and more broad. He can easily play quidditch if he wants, he has the height and stature, Scorpius thinks absently. They stare at each other in a moment of expectant silence, before Albus grins at him. 

 

Scorpius' hair rises on the back of his neck. 

 

"You're in the wrong house," Albus says wolfishly. Scorpius blinks in surprised indignation, but before he can respond a stout young witch bustles through the door.  

 

Scorpius watches flurry in. adjusting her hat as she goes. Blonde hair flies after her, and for a second he think she's a student. She jumps upon notices them, adjusting her glasses. 

 

"Oh, dear! Am I late?" She asks, blinking. She looks between the two of them, "Ah, I see. Albus-- how very kind of you for bringing our new student to class early." 

 

She sets her belongings down on her desk, before waving a wand to straighten up the papers already strewn about. 

 

"Are you-- er, Professor Holland?" Scorpius asks, pulling his books out of his pack. 

 

"Indeed I am, dear." She says, smiling breathlessly. "And you must be Scorpius Malfoy-- ah! Very good, you've gotten the right books. I know those lists can be so confusing, especially for Muggle classes. Very good. And you won't be needing your wand here, not't all. Just a quill and parchment will do," she adds, "and an open-mind." 

 

Scorpius nods, taken aback. Professor Holland treats him, in what he feels, is the most normal since he's arrived at Hogwarts. Most professors had simply nodded their acknowledgment to his presence before delving into the day's lesson, effectively avoiding the awkwardness of addressing the heir of an ex-Death Eater present among them. He didn't mind, still doesn't, and enjoyed distracting himself with notes during the lectures. He even reveled in the pretense of normalcy, at least for the duration of class. 

 

But Professor Holland speaks to him as if Malfoy could have been any other name. He swallows thickly. 

 

"Well, this is a wonderful class," She says dreamily, taking a seat behind her desk. Albus is watching Scorpius, and he ignores the feeling of eyes boring into his neck. "And it's got a lot to offer, if you're keen. Muggles have their own magic, indeed, and it doesn't do you wrong to get a high score in the subject."  

 

She smiles brightly. Scorpius smiles back at her, genuine. 

 

 Soon, student's begin to fill the classroom, chattering amongst each other happily. Professor Holland waves them in, bouncing up from her seat. 

 

"Welcome, welcome!" She pulls out her wand, and objects from the shelves come soaring over to rest upon the table tops. "Today we'll be going over muggle entertainment! Wands away, please--"

 

The stereo lands in front of Scorpius, he's too engrossed in its wonderful novelty to notice the shred of whispers that erupt in the room. 


	3. Want some chocolate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, albus.. there are so many more ways to talk to the boy you like

 

 

 

 

 _“Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I'll come up; if not, I'll stay down here till I'm someone else.”_  
_― Lewis Carroll_ ****

  

 

Avoidance is something Scorpius is intimate with.

 

Albus Potter _, the Slytherin_  (which he knew, but somehow thought could avoid), is hounding him as diligently as  _Laelaps_.

 

 Well, Scorpius thinks to himself, ignoring the urge to check over his shoulder. If Albus is Laelaps, then he’ll flee in a way that makes Teumessian proud. 

 

If not for fear, though he  _is_  afraid of what the Potter boy could possibly want (and he imagines it’s probably to settle old grudges) but in a futile effort to maintain a sense of normalcy. Impossible, in the end, he knows. But for now, if he avoids Albus Potter, he avoids coming to terms with the fact he is  _not_  just another Hogwarts student.

 

He’s a Malfoy, he always will be, but he’s not ready to feel the full brunt of it.

 

Besides, he’s got enough to worry about this coming weekend. About sixteen inches of essay left to write, all in all, and he needs to pen his father before all the school-owls are sent out. Draco will want to know what’s going on, even if he’s unintentionally giving Scorpius the cold shoulder. Update on classes, his health, you know, the usual. Something a parent ought to know--he knows that's what his mum would ask about. And there’s a plus--he’s not been cursed into a weasel, which should please his father. He’ll ask for some allowance too. Mum would have sent him tons of treats by now, letters demanding an update to follow. He pushes the thought away. 

 

Scorpius goes on diligently through the week, full of classes and new faces and completely new surroundings. 

 

He likes the subjects he’s taking. Though, the discovery his of Potions class being not only run by Slughorn, a man who seems to be more than wary of Malfoy’s, but that it also seems to be giving out the most homework by far of his other classes is a dreary one (and that's saying something, as he has sat through one of the most boring hours of his life in A History of Magic). Slughorn, in fact, is the polar opposite of Professor Holland, who teaches Muggle Studies, and barely graces Scorpius with a cough during attendance. He astutely ignores Scorpius inquiries, and further, seems to go deaf whenever someone lets slip a nasty obscenity, as long as it’s aimed towards Malfoy’s or Death Eaters or other unseemly things. 

 

Scorpius is more impressed than offended when someone hisses “fucking fairy” in the middle of class and Slughorn barely blinks. 

 

Percy Parkinson even makes an appearance in Charms, sitting a few seats behind him without acknowledgement, and Gregory shows up not long after. He sits next to Percy with only a faint nod in Scorpius’s direction, which is actually somewhat pleasing to the young Malfoy. 

 

Scorpius notices that Gregoy—or Greg, as most people seem to call him—is not what he’d expect of most Slytherins. He’s vivacious and personable, he smiles more than not, and has a habit of simpering embarrassingly whenever someone speaks kindly to him. Scorpius’s face flushes when Greg wraps an arm around Percy’s shoulders, too affectionate to be only friendly, and doesn’t watch them at all as they set about their work. It’s tedious enough to cause him to sweat, but easier after Flitwick cordially points him in the right direction.

 

Transfiguration follows, which is more of a challenge, and then he has a quick dinner before heading to Astrology. Thankfully it’s a short class, as there’s too many clouds to see clearly into the sky, and he trudges to bed early with his brain all jumbled. The rest of the week goes by similarly, without much time to catch a breather, which in a way, is a relief in itself. 

 

He can ignore the looks, the whispers, even the taunts he gets without much pain.No one intrudes on his personal space or raises a wand, and that’s as much peace as he could ask for. 

 

He doesn't sit for the entire duration of meals, opting to eat quickly or take his food with him. This is a habit that arises more out of trying to avoid Albus than anything else. 

 

What _does_ surprise him (when he manages to sit down at the Slytherin table for more than ten minutes) is the lack of boundary around the houses. Its common, though surprising, to see Hufflepuffs moving to sit with their Ravenclaw friends, Gryffindors transgressing to Hufflepuff, Ravenclaws scattering to Gryffindor. Its not as apparent, but still happens, when members from other houses cross the Slytherin boundary too. He doesn't see many Slytherins going to other tables, except for a few handfuls. He guesses there may be some animosity, or hesitation still lingering. But it's nothing like he's father's description of rigidity. It's clear there's unity that was lacking before.

 

Sometimes the tables are so full of each other's house colors, it's impossible to tell who belongs where. 

 

Albus Potter goes to sit next to the red-haired girl, Rose, often.

 

He thinks he can go on like this indefinitely—distracted by the strain of classes and the ominous looming of exams, but Albus ( _fucking,_  he says in his head) Potter is a gnat that he can’t seem to shake. He’s always there, looking both expectant and determined. It makes Scorpius paranoid, to say the least. 

 

He rushes to and from classes, takes roundabout ways, and has taken to leaving the Dining Hall earlier and earlier, his bundle of food in a napkin to find somewhere to eat in peace.

 

 But, always, Albus tries to find him. A part of him wants to turn on his pursuer, anxious to know _why_ , the other part is used to running and has come to prefer it.

 

 

It’s Saturday when he’s finally cornered in the Library, a respectable amount of time to avoid someone, all in all. 

 

He sets up to study relatively early in the morning, just after shoveling some breakfast in his mouth.

 

He scurries quickly to the library, the promise of being it empty high. There’s no reason for him to think he’s being followed, so he doesn’t, and returns Madam Pince’s stern nod with a polite “hello” before finding a comfortable cranny to nook up into. She is set with a cup of tea at the front desk, and seems too content to bother with making rounds around the bookcases.

 

Scorpius is nose to page when he's disturbed by someone he should have predicted, but is still surprised about seeing.

 

Albus Potter clears his throat.

 

Scorpius jerks up from his book, instinctively reaching for his wand. He knows a hex or two, he reckons he can get at least one good one off. His mind reels, thinking about what to do. How did he not notice the bloke following him? _Did_ he follow him? He must have, there's no way he'd be here so early to study-- 

 

Albus simply quirks an eyebrow at the movement. His hair is wind-blown and rustled, more than usual, like he’s just finish sprinting. He’s deceptively calm. Scorpius stares.

 

“Mind if I join you?” He asks in a low voice. Scorpius gapes at him, and before he can respond, the Potter boy is sitting down across from him.

 

Albus Potter is sitting down, hair mussed with an air of nonchalance, across from Scorpius Malfoy.

 

 He pulls his books out without sparing another glance at Scorpius, who is now gaping like a fish. His fingers are still wrapped around the wand in his pocket. Albus sniffs and pulls out a truffle, “Chocolate?”

 

“Wh—“ Scorpius catches himself, and lowers his voice, the threat of Pince is enough to hush a pixie. “ _What are you doing_?”

 

“Not sure,” Albus says, leaning over the table. “Oh, I guess Muggle Studies it is then. What page?”

 

Scorpius face is hot and he feels his neck dampens with sweat. Albus is staring at him like this is the most normal thing in the world. A Malfoy and a Potter, two chums who come to the library every Saturday to study and titter and eat chocolate. Maybe he’s still asleep, having a nightmare.

 

But no, Albus’s eyes root him here, green and open and too real.

 

Scorpius stares at him before sighing, “Fifty.”

 

Albus blinks, “Huh?”

 

“I’m on page fifty.” He says. He looks back down at his book, eyebrows furrowed. He doesn’t know why he’s not fighting Potter off, or even humoring him. He can tell Albus is watching him, book untouched, but he’s got nothing more to say. The charade of friendliness is easier to play along with than to resist. It'll buy him time to think about what to do, in the least.  Maybe he'll summon Pince with an over exuberant cough.

 

Albus finally, _slowly,_ reaches out and flips open the book to page fifty. He drops his chin on his hand and looks as if he’s reading, but Scorpius can’t be sure.

 

 _He’s_ currently pretending to read.

 

 Moments tick by sluggishly and he figures he should turn the page, and hesitantly releases his wand to do so. He’s slow, like Albus is a wild animal that could strike if he’s startled by moving too quickly.

 

Another moment ticks by. Scorpius thinks about what he’ll write his father. It’s been a long time.

 

_“Hello father,_

_How are things? Actually, don’t bother. Listen, I’m going mental here and it’s because of Harry Potter’s problem son. Let’s not hope for a repeat, shall we? Potters and Malfoys, you understand. I assume I can expect a ticket home by tomorrow evening, if you’re not too busy holed up in your study—“_

“You look a bit hysterical, mate.” Albus murmurs softly, no longer pretending to read.

 

 He’s still on page fifty, the prat.

 

“Yes, well,” Scorpius says shakily, putting his head in his hands, “Pardon me, Mr. Potter. I’m not exactly sure how well I’m supposed to take being stalked by you.” He exhales, “Listen, I know my father was a Death Eater and, well, our parent’s didn’t get along, but I’ve  _nothing_  to do with it. So, please, if you’re here to hex me—“

 

“Hex you?” Albus blinks, shocked. “What would I hex you for?”

 

If Albus didn’t look so positively surprised, Scorpius would have busted out in hysterical laughter.

 

But Albus _does_ look positively flabbergasted, and so the urge is lost on him quickly. 

 

They stare for a moment, mirroring each other’s wide-eyed expressions of embarrassment and confusion.

 

And really, Scorpius has never been so confused, not in his entire life.

 

This moment flips everything for him and turns what he thinks he knows on its belly.

 

Albus Potter wants nothing to do with him except study. No hexes, no taunts, no curses. He sits across from Scorpius like their families don’t have a history bathed in blood and fear and hate. He looks at Scorpius without wariness or disgust.

 

 He simply looks. Scorpius thinks no one has ever looked at him until now. Albus must be the first. 

 

“Why were you following me?” Scorpius whispers.

 

“Why did you keep running away?” Albus retorts easily.

 

“No,” Scorpius frowns. “I asked first. What could you  _possible_  want with me, besides trouble?”

 

He sounds too raw, even to his own ears. Too afraid. The question hangs taught in the air before Albus’s gaze softens and he looks down.

 

“I want to talk to you,” He says. Scorpius cheeks to his ears must be pink.

 

“ _Why?”_

 

Albus’s squints in thought, “Well, honestly, I told Rose—that’s my cousin, dunno if you know her—that I wanted to make amends. But she thought that was bullocks. It really is, I’ll admit. Sharp girl, that one, like her mum.”

 

He continues, smiling, “I think you’re like me. We both got expectations. I must be Albus Severus Potter, gallant bred Potter-wizard-boy. You’re a Malfoy, your whole family’s got mad pure-blood expectations. I know it’s a load of crock, right? So I figured you must think so, too. It’s bollocks, all right, being expected of. Absolute shite. Never wanted any of it.”

 

Scorpius watches Albus’s face shift from smiling to serious. His heart is hammering in his chest. There’s a feeling of familiarity, of discovery, that makes him want to smile. 

 

Albus is the strangest thing he’s ever encountered.

 

Scorpius suddenly remembers something.

 

“Why did you say I was in the wrong house?”

 

Albus’s face lights up, delighted.

 

“Ah, mate,” He leans back in his chair, opening the truffle and popping it in his mouth. Steam billows out of his ears, “If you were in Gryffindor, that would have really shoved it up their arses.”

 

 

Scorpius can’t help but smile. He looks down at his book absently, fingers brushing the edges of the page.

 

_…Muggles, as we have previously defined them as non-magical beings with no genetic relation to any sort of magical entity, have long found ways to entertain. Some wizards have argued their entertainment to be more in-depth and inspiring, as it is crafted without anything but the Muggle’s own wit…_

He looks up at Albus, who hasn’t shifted his gaze and seems to remember he was staring. He has the decency to look slightly embarrassed.  Scorpius gives him a careful smile. Albus returns it, looking a bit relieved. 

 

Scorpius wants to laugh, but doesn't. 

 

"This Muggle stuff, it's a bit genius, isn't it?" He asks instead. Albus perks up, leaning forward.

 

"You don't know shite about Muggles, do you-- being all supremely pure-blood and all." Albus says excitedly, eyes glinting. "I can help you with the class, easy. I know loads about 'em." 

 

"You do?" Scorpius is surprised. Sure, Harry Potter is famously known as being raised by Muggles, but it didn't seem like he'd have jumped at the opportunity to pass on the knowledge. 

 

"Oh sure," Albus grins, and Scorpius feels excitement well up in his chest despite himself. "Loads. My grandpa used to work in the Ministry for Muggle stuff. He's got a whole shed full of artifacts and what not."

 

Scorpius shakes his head, "I don't get half of this stuff. There's nothing Muggle at the manor--er, my house.." He trails off awkwardly, blushing.

 

"Not that there's anything wrong with it!" He adds quickly, flustered. "My father--he doesn't act like he used to. He works with Muggles sometimes. It's just.." 

 

Albus shrugs, smiling. He combs fingers through his hair but it doesn't comply. "I'll teach you about it, mate. Don't worry. We can get started on that paper, too. I only have three inches written." 

 

Scorpius smiles again. It must be the most he's smiled in a long time because his face is sore. He's breathless, like Albus has stolen it from his lungs. 

 

Albus looks at him like he can't get tired of it, like Scorpius is the most interesting thing he's ever seen. 

 

He thinks its mad, absolutely mad.  And there's something wonderful about it. 

 

"Well," Scorpius leans forward, pushing his book towards Albus. "Show me, then." 

 

 

 


End file.
